


Christmas Morning

by endlesshorizons



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas fic, F/F, Femlock, Fluff, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 11:20:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2849048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlesshorizons/pseuds/endlesshorizons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When Joan wakes on Christmas Day, it is a slow and gradual onset of consciousness, like lazily advancing ripples in a quiet lake. She rubs her eyes and lifts her head from the Sherlock-scented sheets, and it takes her a while to realise that Sherlock herself isn’t there.</i>
</p><p>A quartet of teen!femlock 221b's for Christmas morning.</p><p>Written for the 2014 Johnlock Christmas Exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Morning

**Author's Note:**

> For joghurtbrot, since you like fluff, teenlock and femlock. I wanted to get the beelock in as well, but couldn't find a way. I hope you like it anyway! Hope you have a very happy holidays!

**I.**

When Joan wakes on Christmas Day, it is a slow and gradual onset of consciousness, like lazily advancing ripples in a quiet lake. She rubs her eyes and lifts her head from the Sherlock-scented sheets, and it takes her a while to realise that Sherlock herself isn’t there.

Frowning, Joan pushes herself out of the nest of duvets hanging off the single bed and reaches towards her duffle bag for her clothes, nearly tripping over the air mattress on the floor that Sherlock’s dad had blown up the night before. Joan smiles at the memory of the gently amused expression on his face as he did so, patting her on the shoulder and not even bothering to get extra sheets from the closet.

As she pulls on jeans and a jumper, Joan briefly wonders how Harry and their parents are doing at home, then shakes her head to put the thoughts out of her mind. Sherlock had been right in this one rare and accurate insight into human relationships: no matter how she tries, she will never be able to keep the peace in her tinderbox of a family, and it really isn’t her responsibility to do so.

Instead, Joan is determined to enjoy this Christmas. She pulls open the door, and warmth rushes in with the delicious scent of baking.

 

**II.**

“Good morning, dear!”

Joan smiles at Sherlock’s mum as she takes a seat at the table, thanking her as she places a heaping plate before her. Joan had been pleasantly surprised the first time she had met Sherlock’s family, a few years ago when her father had first been transferred to the base nearby. She had been expecting a mansion or estate, with aloof, haughty parents who matched the Holmes siblings’ stiff postures and expansive vocabularies.

Instead, here is Mrs. Holmes bustling around the cozy kitchen in a soft but elegant cardigan, with her husband urging her to have a seat and relax, throwing Joan a look as if commiserating with fond exasperation over their respective partners. Joan blushes and turns her head back to her plate.

“Where’s Sherlock?” she asks.

“I believe she’s out in the shed,” Mycroft drawls from where he is sprawled in an armchair with a newspaper, looking for all the world like a middle-aged man when he is only in his mid-twenties.

“Right,” Joan mumbles, trying to squash her disappointment. Sherlock has long since claimed the shed as her personal laboratory. Joan had hoped that, today of all days, Sherlock’s attention would be elsewhere.

She’ll just have to be persuaded then, Joan decides, glancing at the overly-ornamented tree under which a package lies, wrapped in blue.

 

 **III.**  

Joan brushes her fingers over the present inside her satchel as she steps out the back door, trying not to fiddle with the ribbon in case she frays the carefully constructed bow. While they have been best friends for years, this is the first Christmas since Joan had finally gathered up the courage and confessed as they caught a train after one of their frequent trips to London. Sherlock’s eyes had widened comically and blushed, stuttering incoherent syllables in a way that Joan was too nervous to laugh at until Sherlock had pulled at her clumsily and pressed her trembling lips to Joan’s.

Which, of course, brings her to the flat, wrapped package tucked in her bag. Over the years, Joan has learned to navigate the strange waters of Sherlock’s likes and dislikes, priding herself in the intrigue and glee on her friend’s face as she unwraps a distillation set or an obscure treatise. This year, however, needs to be extra special.

Joan knows that, despite her protests and pretences, Sherlock is a sentimental person. Over the past few weeks, Joan has painstakingly gone through old newspaper clippings and her own scattered collections. The end result is the compilation of notes and souvenirs from each of their cases, from Jennifer Wilson’s missing phone to the one last month with actual bodies.

 

**IV.**

Joan doesn’t have to go far to find her target. Sherlock is standing just outside the small building behind the house, fiddling with metal tubes stuck together in a bizarre-looking tetrahedron. Joan sighs and pulls her jacket more tightly around herself. Of course Sherlock would choose the coldest day of the year to do her experiments outdoors.

Sherlock is so concentrated on her task that she doesn’t see Joan come up beside her. Her brows are furrowed and she is muttering under her breath, dark curls wild in a way that Joan recognises as a sign of frustration.

“What are you doing?”

Sherlock startles, but her hands maintain their firm hold around the tubes as if shielding a baby. “Nothing,” she replies far too quickly.

“I’m not stupid, you know. How long have you been out here?”

Sherlock squirms under Joan’s stern look and finally admits, “since five in the morning. I was supposed to be back before you woke up, but the stupid thing’s not working! It was fine last night.”

Joan looks at the strange shape again. “What is it?”

“A snowmaker,” Sherlock replies miserably. “I wanted to give you the best Christmas ever.”

Joan swallows against the suddenly rising prickle of salt behind her eyes. “Idiot,” she whispers. “Any Christmas I spend with you is already the best.”


End file.
